


smoke bodies

by venpast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (he doesnt start off as one though), Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee Shops, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slow Burn, keith is a boxer, lance is a ballerino, lance is a bit of an asshole at the start fair warning, the voltron cast is mainly divided between ballet/boxing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9607727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venpast/pseuds/venpast
Summary: “Keith,” Lance looked up, repeating the name, “I don’t like it”The man rolled his eyes, taking the cup into his palm. Lining the open mountains of his knuckles, were peaked tips of blue and black, broken bruises that folded into water-pressed shades of violet. Every bone and every tendon up the back of a pale palm dotted itself in the same telltale tattoo of shattered and re-shattered bones. He swallowed, and it was hard not to recognize the grip of insecurity in Keith’s hold.“Good thing no one asked you.”





	1. folded maps and street corners

**Author's Note:**

> its been 32764 years since of florists and tennis shoes aaaaaaand im back, with a failure of a fic. i'm well aware the idea of a ballet au's out there at the moment, but this story's been haunting me since october (haunting, hah).
> 
> this one is probably going to be pretty long if i ever finish it :')
> 
> the concept of ballet/boxing is [ @wintersnoozie's](http://wintersnoozie.tumblr.com/), brought to my attention by the lovely [ @centrifuck](http://centrifuck.tumblr.com/). both of them are cool stuff 
> 
> now have a long, unnecessary prologue
> 
>   _and on the lower east side you're dancing with me now_  
>  _and i'm taking pictures of you with flowers on the wall_  
>  _think i like you best when you're dressed in black from head to toe_  
>  k., cigarettes after sex

He stepped off the train, a map in hand and heavy pressure weighing itself between his shoulders. It was a strange, foreign feeling, leaving the city he’d called home for so long in favor of this new, nameless town in the middle of a nameless place that was nothing but a coffee stain between the red and blue of metro lines and street corners. Lance swallowed, standing idle on the platform, looking down at the crumpled piece of paper between his trembling fingers - he almost didn’t know where to start, or what to do, feeling completely alienated, as the few people there crisscrossed in front of him with purpose and speed.

The station wasn’t by any means a busy one, its sounds rather tame, its walls lined with what looked like age-old graffiti of unintelligible words in worn neons. It was only the breaking of the wind and gentle chirrup of birds Lance couldn’t name that gave some proper life to the place, the autumn morning close to folding into afternoon. Sure, a couple people had gotten off with him, but they were long gone with that same pace and hurry that he wished he had. Biting the corner of his lip, Lance drew in a steady breath through his nose, head twisting to look up at a faded light blue sky; well, here goes nothing.

Placing a palm on the handle of his suitcase, he trudged forward, mesh running shoes silent against the asphalt. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to move - _hell_ , he was partially glad that he did, having been unable to stand the looks of pity and the hands that found his shoulders in sympathy any longer. All those people had all meant well, of course, but that hardly mattered; Lance had to get out of there, and if that meant moving to a virgin town on the outskirts of god knows where, then so be it. He only turned back at the sound of a deafening bell and the screeching of heated steel rails; his emotions seemed to pitch at the sight of his train pulling out of the station. _Can’t really go back on this now, huh._

Swallowing, he folded the crumpled map and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans - after all, he didn’t need it any more, with the address memorized out of pure anxiety and the town too small to really be on the map anyway. It was a bittersweet feeling, he had to admit, coming here. All those dreams of living in a big city having gone to shit with one single slip up, his picture-perfect, ideal life seemed to halt before it even started. That thought in mind, bittersweet no longer felt like the right feeling to describe it; horrible seemed to suit the situation better.

Deciding not to dwell on things - _I’m already here now, anyway_ \- Lance moved forward, one hand on the cool handle and the other tucked into the strap of his duffle bag. A small, melancholy smile made it onto his face; god, it had been impossible to pack - there was so much he’d wanted to take with him, everything from old photo albums to those dirty mustache print socks that his mom so badly wanted to burn. There was so much he could have taken, but for once in his life, Lance exercised some much needed self restraint. This was meant to be a fresh start - and fresh starts didn’t normally begin with relics from whatever bullshit americana golden-age childhood he might have had. Besides, he figured it was damn well time to leave that all behind anyway. It wasn’t much of a choice.

The crease between his eyebrows deepened, the paling station sign falling into his backdrop; _I fucking hope this was worth it._  


* * *

  
The town was everything Lance thought it would be and a little less - and so what if that opinion was born out of cynical thoughts, and the soft, intentional hurt of low expectations; it was no secret - not even to himself - that he didn’t want to think much of the place. Though in all reality, if Lance was an ounce honest about this whole thing, he would admit that the place was hardly as bad as he made it out to be, its palette of orange and yellow giving a new taste to autumn that city-life never had, with old oaks lining the corners of an open forrest and cool air breezing over and between small buildings. There were no high-rises, no fancy cars, no rush hour, no business men on phones and no ladies in suits and executive pencil skirts - instead, all Lance really found was the silence of a small town on Sunday morning.

The crewneck of his navy pullover seemed a little tight, a little scratchy - _and hella too classy for this shit-hole_ , was the bitter thought. His vanity was amplified merely by the fact that he didn’t want to be there, and Lance normally had an ego that was both noteworthy and unchallenged - his jeering expression was one that came naturally as his eyes lined the brick buildings and the bicycle paths. The place was so unremarkable that part of him wanted to damn the money spent and just head on home; maybe he could handle the emotional haunting of his old bedroom a little longer. Closing his eyes, the expression fell to one that was more downcast than angry; he needed to be here, there was no doubting that. Lance needed the calm more than he needed the luxury.

He let out a suffering breath, letting it roll against his bruised lips - it had taken him hours to get here, with four train tickets warming the inside of his pocket. He’d had no chance to so much as breathe as he hauled himself from platform to platform, much less take the time to look in the mirror. His appearance, mouth very well included, became collateral in the process. The cold had bit at his lips until they cracked with hues of magenta and blue, eyes stamped with an alien sort of fatigue he hadn’t felt in years.

After all, getting enough sleep was his religion.

For once in his life, though, Lance wasn’t all that bothered by looking like he rolled off the train-tracks instead of stepped off the train itself. No one really knew him in this town, and there was no one to captivate or enchant or whatever. He was hardly in the mood for any of it, not with how his bones ached and not with how - on a more metaphysical note - his heart did, as well. Lance opened his eyes again; he needed to get over it. He needed to embrace this new place because no one would do it for him.

The town was empty for the most part, with the occasional cyclist rolling by, eyes more focused on their phones than the road. Lance didn’t really blame them, because for all his half-hour walk, he hadn’t seen a single car in use. Well, Lance cocked his head, looking at a girl walk into one of the small coffeeshops on the corner, it is the weekend. He couldn’t help wondering if this little town had nightlife or clubs, or any remotely fun place to hang out in the evenings. Readjusting the strap across his chest, he tried not to think of the gym back home and how much he would miss it.

Back home; _fuck_.

Thankfully, his thoughts didn’t have the chance to linger on the past for any further, because he came to a stop in front of an old era townhouse, its frontal painted a gentle summer yellow, long rectangular windows framed in peeling white paint. It looked a lot older than the buildings it was tucked against, vines of ivory and deep pink bouganville thread in between the cracks left open by time. It was nothing like the bachelor pad he thought he’d be living in at twenty three, but it would do. Lance’s eyes traced the outline of the pebble steps, trailing upward to the number by the door.

_Andromeda 71_

Pushing his bag aside, Lance swung his duffle bag forward, unzipping it with ease before digging around for the house keys he’d received in the mail. It wasn’t a hard task, sifting through a bag that was mostly empty, its contents sliding from side to side with the rough movements of his arm. A couple half-empty bottles of product and couple pairs of rhythmic shoes brushed against his palm - there was a gentle pang in his chest that faded when he found the keys finally, slipping them into the lock. His was not the first floor apartment, he noted idly, looking at the steel _1B_ that stared back at him from a spartan-looking white door; Lance’s was one floor up, if he recalled correctly.

“Jesus, _fuck_ ,” he hissed under breath, sound coming out as a stuttered mess. Dragging a suitcase as large as his up the metal staircase was something of a nightmare - regardless of how much upper-body strength he possessed, and regardless of how many years of gymnastics rolled the muscles in his thighs to perfection - Lance felt like he was dying. _It’s alright_ , he tried to tell himself, _it’s been months since practice - if you were still at it, this bag would be your bitch_. There was a little voice in his head silently laughing at his struggle. “Damn it!”

“Heh, I thought I heard someone.”

The voice came from the top of the staircase, more warm than patronizing, but it didn’t jolt Lance any less. With an undignified yelp, he let go of the suitcase, wincing with every slam of the massive thing. He closed his eyes, listening to it finally settle on the ground below. Lance looked up from under his lashes at an apologetic looking Hunk. “Really, man? Couldn’t wait until I actually _made_ it to the top?”

Hunk didn’t hesitate in pushing forward, moving down the stairs to meet him half-way, “Shit, are you alright, Lance?”

Lance sighed, accepting the motherly pats and the warm embrace that soon engulfed him. Hunk looked as though he just rolled out of bed, his hair in a disarray, flattened on one side and wild on the other, flannel pajamas far less warm than Lance’s own clothes. Hunk smelt like home, just a different type of home that involved sandalwood instead of cologne and freshly baked muffins instead of protein bars. Fighting back his homesickness, Lance accepted the affection with open arms, palms gripping onto the back of Hunk’s shirt. “I’m alright, big guy.”

“Dude, I was supposed to get you from the station at two-thirty!” Hunk looked over Lance’s shoulder at the still open main door, “It’s like, I dunno, twelve, or something - you’re so early.”

“Took an earlier train,” Lance replied easily, flippant smile on his tired face, “Figured you missed me, so I thought I’d hurry.”

Hunk frowned a little,pulling away to give Lance another concerned once-over. “You should’ve told me.”

With a gentle laugh, Lance did his best to wave off the concern, palm rolling. “It’s alright, man.”

“You walked here?”

“Yeah, dude, your town is a tiny—”

“Lance,” the crease deepened between Hunk’s expressive brows, his eyes incredulous, “You shouldn’t have, is that—”

Lance huffed, both tired and irate, his glare silencing Hunk before his mouth did, “I’m fine, okay? Look—” he did a quick, practiced pirouette on the step he stood on, body twisting on its axis easily, before bending himself in an over exaggerated bow, duffle bag never getting in the way, “I’m as amazing as always. I take it you’re not surprised. Now, do you wanna help me haul this bag back up before I decide to sleep out here, rather than in a proper bed?”

Relenting, Hunk dropped his guarded expression. He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest, “Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet. I’m starving.”

“Good—me neither.”

Lance couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto his face; he hadn’t seen Hunk for months, but there was never an awkward transit in their relationship once they were together again - things simply went on the way they did before. Lance didn’t deny that it was all Hunk’s doing and not his own, because even he could admit that he hardly constituted as a skilled conversationalist. It was still remarkable every time it happened though, and it surprised him how quickly they fell into it although they hadn’t lived under the same roof since both of them dropped out of college together, placing a lock on that old dorm room they shared once and for all. Lance had gone back to live with his family, and Hunk had come here.

Ironically enough, it was Hunk who always visited. It wasn’t that Hunk didn’t invite Lance over, rather it was always Lance who apologized, rain checking almost every time he so much as _thought_ of crossing the country. It was a cheap move, and embarrassing, given that - after all this time - he would live in the very place he was so uninterested in. He would room with Hunk again as he always had before, and despite all the vanity fueled hate Lance harbored for the town itself, it felt a little good. _At least something worthwhile came out of this shithole after all._

“Here, let me get that,” Hunk pushed past him, moving down the stairs with quick feet, making it to the bottom faster than Lance could backflip down. He raised an eyebrow - well, Hunk did use the staircase everyday, so he supposed it wasn’t too much of a stretch to see him so at ease with a death-trap as steep as this one. Lance watched silently as the other grabbed the bag, and as though it weight a little less than nothing, tossed it over his shoulder.

Lance blinked, “Fuck—dude, let me help you with tha—”

“No need,” _is that a cocky smile?_ “I’ve got it. Move.”

Lance looked around for a second, not hiding his discomfort, trying to make room for Hunk on the narrow staircase. “Uh, I don’t thin—”

“Go up, Lance,” he laughed, gesturing forward with his other hand as though it was the most natural course of action - because it was to some extent. “Its the first door on the right.”

Lance nodded, distracted and still a little shocked that Hunk was four times more capable than he was in the strength department. _Whatever_. “Do you live in a room, or something?” he asked, trying to be conversational as he walked up the remaining few steps. He came to a stop at the top, looking down, “This is pretty tight.”

“Nah, it’s a studio. Kind of? I think that’s what you call a room and a living area.”

Lance tried his best not to frown a little, “Then why the hell’s the entrance so tiny, if these are all apartments?”

“I dunno, it’s an old building, man.” Hunk gave him a single-shouldered shrug, “I don’t really question it as long as the living space is decent.”

Lance only now started to realize how spoiled and reliant he’d been for the better half of his life, “Larger than the Garrison dorms?”

Hunk came to stand by him, dropping the suitcase, “Oh, hell yeah. That two bed, one room life was a struggle.”

“And here I thought you liked rooming with me,” Lance cocked an eyebrow, crossing his arms, “I am a pleasure to be around.”

“Yeah, _sure_ ,” Hunk rolled his eyes, with no attempt to hide his sarcastic patronizing, “Have to admit though, if you wake me up at five-thirty on dark-winter’s-day because of your morning routine, McClain, I will throw you out faster than you can say crème hydratante or whatever the fuck you call it.”

Lance laughed despite feeling his chest tighten the slightest bit. Hunk wouldn’t have to deal with that anymore—not as often as he did during their Garrison years, anyways. After all, Lance had left most of those products by his bathroom sink back home, and hadn’t touched any of them for months, his state of mind too uncaring to bother - he simply hadn’t felt like doing any of it anymore. He’d gotten a little better emotionally, he supposed, but it changed little in terms of his exaggerated beauty routine. Coming to this town would help, he knew it would - there was no one he wanted to impress, and there was no one here whose opinion mattered in the slightest; Hunk had always told him he looked fine even on the days he broke out, anyway.

Once upon a day, Lance had joked that he _always_ looked fine, even at the worst of times. He wondered if he still believed that statement, given how shitty he felt standing there with an ache in his bones and stutter in his breath. He smirked instead, throwingHunk a wink and a drawn out “Well, no promises.”

He got a gentle smile in return, Hunk reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately, “Good to have you here, buddy.”

“Good to be here,” Lance spoke through a gradually tightening smile, “really good.”  


* * *

  
Their late breakfast was as warm and sweet-smelling as Lance remembered it to be, french toast golden on one side, the neck of the syrup bottle sticky between his fingers. He felt himself smile, watching Hunk rave on about one thing or the other, the man’s excitement running through his body in the form of swinging arms and expressive frowns. It was nice, sitting there at the small kitchen bar, pretending that this domesticity was normal, that it was fine, and not due to Lance’s emotional state falling apart elsewhere. He bit another piece of toast off his fork, soaked through with maple syrup—something Hunk had always called him out on - _“What the hell are you doing? Dude that’s savory, oh my god, you’re disgusting!”_

It was funny, because Hunk made it for him anyway.

Lance sighed and dropped his fork, pushing the plate forward with disinterest, eyes looking off to the side. He was still somewhat hungry, but the desire to eat left him between bites. Hunk stopped mid-sentence, his hand pausing in the air, a worried crease between his eyebrows, “Uh, dude?”

“Yeah?” Lance breathed, his voice trying its best to sound somewhat usual.

“Is the food not good or something?”

“It’s good,” he nodded, refusing to look back, instead, threading lean fingers into the fringe of his sweater, “I promise. I’m just really tired.”

“You used to eat, like, eight of these, man.” If there was one thing Hunk was good at, it was picking up on the slight that tremble that wrung Lance’s wrist and the corner of his mouth.Hunk let his hands drop at the lack of response, biting his lip ever so slightly before drawing in a gentle breath, “Okay, okay, you know what? Screw breakfast. Who likes food anyway, am I right? I, personally, do not.”

That made Lance smile, tentative, and grateful. “You’re full of shit, Garrett.”

“Shut up,” Hunk waved him off, rolling his eyes, “I’m full of bro-love, and your salty ass just doesn’t appreciate it.”

“Bro-love, is that right?” Lance leant forward again, his smile widening into playful grin, lopsided and tugged higher on the left. He picked up the fork, drawing idly in syrup that drenched the plate. “I call bull.”

“I gave up food for you, Lance. _Unbelievable_.”

Lance’s laugh rang louder than he thought it would, falling out of his control for a moment, its low-pitched nature rolling into a single tired snort. He placed the back of his hand to his lips as the sound died down, more tempted to laugh at himself again, “Oh, _sorry_ , for you know - interrupting your _afternoon_ breakfast.”

“Listen,” Hunk’s eyes widened in incredulity, the gleam peppered in brown entirely playful, “it still counts if its the first thing I’ve eaten, yeah? Not to mention its probably time for breakfast somewhere right now. So there, _boom_ ,” he drops his fork much like he would a mic, “invalid argument, get wrecked.”

“ _Please,”_ Lance scoffed, jaw circling, smile challenging, “my argument is perfectly sound, man. You’re the one having breakfast past midday.”

“Last I checked you’ve been stuffing your face for the past fifteen, too.”

“Yes, Hunk, but _I_ ,” he placed a flat palm to his chest, blinking slowly, doing his best to keep the smile at bay, “am a mere traveller, cursed to cross the nation - _you,”_ he points back, “literally rolled out of bed.”

Hunk’s face faked solemnity, “Do you have french toast for lunch, Lance? Dinner? I think not. This conversation ends here.”

“Whatever,” Lance laughed, rolling his eyes; he paused, swallowing faintly, leaning forward to pick up his fork again. “So, what’ve you been up to? I feel like - like we haven’t spoken in a while.”

“Because we haven’t,” it hadn’t been accusatory, in fact the tone was pleasantly lofty as Hunk leant back in his seat with a satisfied sound, “You’ve been busy, and that’s alright.”

Lance felt the humor of the past couple of minutes die, a guilty wince drawing itself across his features. It was true enough - they hadn’t spoken for a while, and despite the exaggerated tales Hunk had been going on about for the past half hour, there was little Lance actually _knew_ about him; last they’d gotten together was thanksgiving the year before, where Lance’s mother had insisted on having Hunk over. The feeling made him feel a little more sick than he cared to admit out loud, instead he focused his eyes on the sharp peaks of his fork, watching as they drew lines in the syrup. “Yeah, you’re right - sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he can see Hunk shrug out of the corner of his eyes, arms placed behind his head; it almost bothered Lance how _unbothered_ Hunk seemed by the fact they hadn’t spoken for a little under a year, save the few phone calls that arranged this situation. “I haven’t been doing much to be honest, but it’s been good.”

Lance smiled, a little melancholy, “Living the life you dreamed you’d be living post-Garrison, Garett?”

“Not even close,” that made Lance’s eyes rise with a sharp, unhesitating flick, focused intently on Hunk’s face; he was met with an easy smile. “But I think that’s alright. Nothing really ever works out the way you picture it will - but as long as you’re happy, I guess that’s something.”

Lance looked off to the side, “What if it’s neither?”

“Well, then I guess you have to try and work past it,” Hunk’s voice was comforting to some extent, “It’s not a matter of having good stuff thrown your way, Lance. It’s a matter of making the most of what you’ve got.”

“You’re generic and cliché.”

“And you’re an asshole,” Hunk rolled his eyes, throwing an unused cotton napkin into Lance’s face, before getting up. “Now, come help me wash these - you’re not getting out of doing the dishes, McClain, no matter how prissy you are.”


	2. tar coffee and bruised knuckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> caved and threw in another one. here you go, have keith

Lance found himself flicking through television channels, eyes lidded with unhidden disinterest; this was what his days were reduced to, body laying on Hunk’s couch, laced to the bone with obnoxious lethargy and untainted boredom. This was far from what he was built for, and having already spent nearly a week mooching off his friend’s company, Lance figured his situation was pretty pathetic. Without blinking, he changed the channel again, his form stretched over the sofa, arm loose with the remote in hand - gods, he hadn’t even registered what the show was about, only that his mind was buzzing with absolute, capitalized _boredom. So, this is how I die_ , he threw an arm over his eyes, dramatic even in the absence of people, a reality program playing in the background, _to the sound of a catfight over mascara._

_Hm, not that surprising I guess._

The thought made him smile, breathing a laugh through his teeth. Half the time, Hunk wasn’t even around for long enough to hear his jokes, leaving in the morning after breakfast and coming home hours later in the evening. Lance hadn’t minded it, he went along with it - after all, the man had a life that wasn’t composed of entertaining him - a life that involved a job and a girlfriend, and friends who actually _asked_ about him. He let out a groan at the thought, the guilt was impossible to live with, what with the smell of cookies and Hunk’s body wash riddled into the cushions. He loved Hunk, he really did, but it was no secret that Lance was easily distracted, and easily taken by the slightest things. It wasn’t his best excuse.

Before Lance could dwell on that a little further, he heard key hit lock. _Finally_.

There was something so distinct about the way Hunk came home - the way he missed the lock, and the key scraped its way into the correct position, to the soft mutter of curses and ruffling of fabric. Lance found himself grinning, his body rolling off the couch with fluid ease, _fuck yeah_. “Hunkers!”

“ _Hey_ ,” was the breathless response, Hunk pushing through the front door with grocery bags laced onto his wrists, shoulder pressed against the peeling frame, “I bought nice bread.”

Lance walked forward grabbing one of the two heavy-looking bags, his curious nature having him pry it open before having reached the counter. _God_ , there was something that smelled stupidly good for a supermarket’s cheap bakery. Nearly all the grocery stores he’d frequented back home had the standard, cringeworthy items that Lance - and everyone else with half a brain - stayed far from. “Dude, how the fuck did you manage to land fancy bread _this_ late? Damn, man - do you have, like, _food_ connections?”

Hunk laughed, setting down the other bag on the counter, where Lance was shuffling. “Did you like, not eat anything all day or something? Wild.”

Lance threw him a lidded look from the corner of his eyes, pulling out one of the long french breads, fingers pressing to break off the end; he pointedly ate it, speaking with a full mouth, his tone far from inquisitive, “What gave it away.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Thanks,” Lance swallows the bite before grinning, giving Hunk’s shoulder a gentle punch, the fabric of his still rain-damp coat folding under the playful shove. It was cold against Lance’s knuckles, definitely out of place in the heat of the apartment. “How was your day, man? Meet anyone as handsome as me - I mean, gotta know your competition, am I right?”

Hunk’s grin rose in amusement, “You’re so full of shit.”

“Thanks,” was the immediate, repeated response.

A comfortable silence folded itself between them after that, Hunk having shrugged off his coat and started unpacking the bags. Lance sat himself on the kitchen’s open-bar, picking at the long baguette with big-bite determination. It hadn’t take him very long to chew his way to the end, and with a final swallow, he started up the conversation again, eyes following Hunk as he sorted out the last of the items, “So, for realsies—”

Hunk sounded like he was trying hard not to laugh, “Don’t use ‘ _realsies_ ’, like ever.”

“You’re no fun,” Lance rolled his eyes, but didn’t take it to heart. Instead, he tried again, feet swinging, “Anything interesting happen today?”

“Not particularly,” Hunk shrugged, leaning the small of his back on the opposite counter. Lance hated how although they fell into relaxed routine easily, there was so little between them they could talk about. “I mean, Shay dropped by the studio today.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lance raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over the black crewneck he wore. He remembered that phone call a while back, there Hunk had mentioned taking up ballet. It was so strange for Lance at the time, always having seen Hunk as a gym person - had he ever decided on getting into something sport-related, that was. _Random,_ had been his initial thought - they hadn’t spoken about it since, though. All Lance really recalled about the topic was Shay’s encouragement; he hadn’t even _met_ this mystery girl, despite being ecstatic on his friend’s behalf. He nodded his head, urging Hunk to continue, “and how’d that go?”

It seemed like the right think to say, and Lance saw that spark of excitement light up in dark eyes, “Oh, man, Lance - you gotta meet her, man, she’s great. She came by and like, hung out for a bit,” Hunk’s smile was blinding. Lance found himself smiling as well, the idea of Hunk being in love resting nicely in his mind. “Allura didn’t even mind, you know? Well, I guess they’re friends, too - which is pretty neat. But still! It’s was pretty chill of her to come by.”

“That _is_ pretty awesome.” Lance hummed, Allura - _the instructor_ , he remembered. “So, when am I going to meet her?”

“Shay?” Hunk seemed taken back, as though he’d considered the possibility, but hadn’t thought Lance would be interested. “Whenever you get off your ass and decide to take a stroll around town, you know, instead of pretending to like it for _my_ sake.”

Lance winced, and waved off Hunk’s immediate, attempted apology with a rolling palm, one arm still across his chest. He knew that the intention wasn’t to make him feel guilty, and frankly, it wasn’t like Hunk hadn’t pointed out something valid. In the week Lance had spent since showing up, he hadn’t gone out save a grand total of four times - one of which was to take out the trash, _pathetic._ It was unlike him, and it wasn’t helping his mood. “Nah, man. You’re good. I actually - uh - wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Really?” Hunk blinked, leaning his elbows back onto the counter. He looked so at ease, and entirely in his element, relaxation knotted into the breadth of his shoulders. Lance couldn’t help the small blossom of envy; he _wanted_ to feel at home in this town, but it seemed a little far from reality, as things stood now. _Maybe this is the first step,_ he thought, tonguing the inside of his cheek, _if this doesn’t do it, I have no idea what will_.

“Yeah. I - well, I was thinking of getting a job. You know, to make better use of my time and shit?” he answered, his head nodding idly. He couldn’t help the deep sigh that ran over his teeth, followed by a choppy laugh, “If my ma were to see me now, she’d get on a train and come over just to wring my neck.”

“Nah,” Hunk smiled gently, “this is basically your second home, you know that right?”

“Yeah, man.” Lance paused, his arms moving to either side of him, palms gripping the lip of the surface, “I just thought it might be a good idea, I don’t know.”

Hunk shrugged, pushing off the counter to walk towards the fridge. He leant down and pulled out a juice carton, tilting it in a questioning gesture that Lance turned down. “Well,” Hunk started again, pouring himself a glass, “I think it’s a great idea. You’re generally pretty social, so I think this might be a step in the right direction.”

Lance could feel that tension that pulled on the muscles of his back and deep in his thighs relax, a breath of relief sounding a little louder than he intended. He really didn’t want to get into an argument with Hunk about this - and he _knew_ his friend well enough to know that he would be willing to let Lance surf his couch for free. It didn’t sit well with Lance, and despite everything, he knew Hunk would’ve insisted that ‘ _dude, what the fuck, you’re my guest! I’m not letting you work!’_ \- that was, if Lance didn’t look so miserable with nothing to do.

Lance’s family was fairly well off, he supposed, but there were no fancy cars or mansions - he had to save up to buy things for himself, and much like his siblings, he had chores to do. His mother hadn’t raised him to slack off in someone’s house, and he intended to honor that. Lance grinned, “Awesome! So, you’re gonna help me fin—”

“—no?” Hunk interrupted, throwing Lance a knowing smile over the rim of his glass, “I don’t know. I was thinking—this seems like a good socializing opportunity, right? Go out an explore?”

Lance’s grin faded into a sharp, pronounced deadpan, _you’ve got to be fucking kidding me._  


* * *

_  
_ The next morning, Lance found himself in the streets at ten, looking about as aimless as the pigeons he almost stepped on. He wasn’t exactly lost - the town’s a little to small for that, was the cynical thought - but he didn’t have a clue where he was going. It was a Sunday morning, and in every respect, that meant one empty of any entertainment or open shops where he could beg for a vacancy. With a huff, he tucked both palms into the front pocket of his sweater, his neck craning to look around, eyes tracing the small buildings with a sense of alienation. He’d walked down this same road on his way to Hunk’s, but nothing seemed to ring with familiarity - he figured it must have been his lack of enthusiasm.

It hadn’t been long after he’d sat himself down on a pealing bench off on the sidewalk did Lance really think of what he wanted to do. It wasn’t the shallow question of _where do you see yourself in five years_ , that he’d get on questionnaires or college applications - rather, it was what he wanted to do then and there. He looked off to the side, watching the one or two people around, wander; _so what’s it going to be, McClain,_ he asked himself, eyes following the lines of a coffeeshop cushioned against a teal flower shop, _you wanna be a florist or a barista?_

The scoff came naturally, _fuck flowers, that’s not going to happen._

Game plan in mind, he pushed himself off the seat with fluid ease, body flexible. The shop was a small thing, glass taking up the majority of its front save the wooden door that seemed like it would fall off its hinges. It wasn’t his first choice, Lance had to admit, but it was a matter of keeping himself busy, not keeping himself satisfied. Opening the door tentatively, he stepped inside, the smell of coffee beans and vanilla wrapping around his limbs, strong an prominent, in a way that will undoubtably stick to the fringes of his clothes.

The place itself was nothing special - not particularly cozy, like those cafés he’d see online, and nothing like those sleek modern setups in kitchen magazines. It was basic, from every round wooden table, to every dangling light fixture, and as Lance cocked his head, he couldn’t help but feel thankful for it. After all, a coffeeshop that didn’t seem very special probably wasn’t a very busy one. _The less busy,_ he reasoned, _the less shit I have to do._

He let his eyes fall onto the barista counter, not surprised to find a woman leant against it, blonde hair held in a tight ponytail, edges curled against the rise of bare bronze shoulders. She was beautiful, that much he could make out, even with the way she was hunched over a magazine, the gum between her teeth loud, stretching against her tongue and popping every few seconds. Eyes still downward bound, Lance assumed she hadn’t seen him, her uncovered arms resting against the counter.

He cleared his throat. She hadn’t bothered looking up, neck craning under the rise of a black, sleeveless turtleneck, gaze seeming to focus even more on the content than it had initially. If Lance wasn’t too preoccupied with how pretty she was, he might have noticed the blatant attempt at dismissal. “Uh—hey?”

With a suffering sigh, her eyes rolled up, sharpening in violet focus on him, “Yeah? You want a drink or something?”

Lance stared awkwardly. “Isn’t this, like, your job or something?”

“Last I checked,” she turned down to her magazine, popping that blue gum deliberately; her voice wasn’t especially angry, only a little disinterested. “yeah, it kinda was.”

“Well, good news for _you_ , pretty lady,” he found himself smirking regardless, his body naturally striding forward in confident, open steps. Lance leant the side of his hip against the counter when he was close enough, arms crossed, “I’m not here for a drink.”

She flipped the page, with a loud scoff, “Here to chat up the resident - and clearly uninterested - barista, are you?”

He rolled his eyes, smile still wide and suave, “Close, but not quite, sweetheart.”

Awake eyes flicked up to meet his, and although her expression was apathetic, Lance could see that faint and challenging rise at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah? And what brings a—” her eyes gave him a once over, “— _pretty_ city boy to this shit-hole coffeeshop, huh?”

“Your name,” was his unhesitating response.

She let out a bark of laughter, feminine but sharp, and Lance couldn’t help but smile along; _finally, some sort of response._ “Silver tongue, stranger,” she breathed, “It’s Nyma.”

“A pretty name for a pretty lady,” Lance’s neck craned to rest on his shoulder, looking down at her with hooded eyes.

“Better be,” her smile was beyond amused, curling red against golden brown, “I made it up.”

Lance didn’t let it get to him, instead, laid a hand over his heart, clutching at the grey cotton, “She’s creative, too—mama always told me I was a lucky man.”

“Did she also tell you you were full of shit?” Nyma’s laugh was looser, more relaxed as she stood up straight, her stomach visible and flat, rung with silver. Lance bit back the, _nah, that’s my friend’s job_ , his eyes trailing the edges of her cropped turtleneck. “You caught me, Romeo - the name’s real. So, you wanna tell me why you’re here, if it’s not for the coffee?”

With a playful sigh, Lance pushed himself off the counter, “I need a job, and was kinda hoping you’d be hiring.”

“Well, we aren’t.” Nyma shrugged, and he felt a whine begin to roll upward from the base of his lungs, “not that I’m aware of, that is.”

Looking around, Lance saw no one else in the store - not even the lone customer that usually wandered into places like this. He turned back to her, “Who’s supposed to know, anyways?”

“My boss?” It was patronizing, and the smile and slight wave of the head did nothing for Lance’s ego.

His deadpan was near tangible, taking a step back from the counter, “Yeah, so - _where_ is your boss?”

She gestures with a thumb over her shoulder, and Lance is left momentarily staring at the kitchenette behind her. Caught initially by the pretty ends of her hair and the curve of her lips, Lance hadn’t noticed Nyma’s workspace. It was the single strangest café kitchen he’d ever seen, with rookie work done to the panelling and the devices, making them look off, in one sense or another, mismatched and reattached. If it wasn’t for the fact they seemed to be made of random bits and pieces, Lance would’ve found the shape of most devices relatively modern looking. He just hoped they worked as well as they seemed to, given that abandoned cup of coffee by Nyma’s magazine; _a tech magazine_ \- _who would’ve thought._

Lance was impressed to say the least, looking a little dazed before Nyma spoke again, “ _Backroom_ , lover boy.”

He glanced up at her, tucking his palms into his sweater awkwardly, having lost a little of his flirt initiative. “Wait,” he frowned, “you expect me to just walk in on your boss in the employees’ room? That’s not exactly how you give a good impression.”

She rolled her eyes, “It isn’t like Rolo’s jacking off in there or anything, mate - he’s probably done with his doobie by now anyway.”

“ _Doobie_?”

“Were you sheltered or something, kid?” Nyma chuckled, bringing two fingers to her mouth, puffing a breath off the imaginary cigarette caught between chipped blue nails, before bringing those fingers down into a finger gun, “A joint, sweetheart. He’s getting baked.”

Lance blinked, unimpressed by the display, but still appreciative of the way her watch slid down a narrow wrist. She radiated a certain elegance that he hadn’t expected to find in the simple town - one embedded in character, rather than the fabric of her clothes. Everything from her confidence, to her simple swearing made him like her a little more. “Not sheltered, _athletic_ —”

A shoulder that pushed past his own, had the words hit the back of his throat somewhat forcefully.

“Nyma, can I have a tall black?” came the gruff voice, filling Lance’s peripheral with a head of dark hair. He turned entirely to look at the person, a biting comment ready on the tip of his tongue; Lance hadn’t anticipated it, not in the slightest, given how empty the coffeeshop had been. “I don’t have time, so, please? Quick?”

“ _Oi_ ,” Lance interrupted, giving the man a once over, his mind immediately antagonizing him. His attitude could use adjustment, Lance decided, even though this was the first time he’d ever seen the guy. _Who pushes someone out of the way for coffee anyway?_ Eyes trailing over the highs and lows of a concentrated expression, he had to admit it: the man wore his face well. He scoffed, _too well._ “No one teach you its rude to interrupt?”

Lance watched the man pause, eyes falling off of Nyma’s amused frame to refocus on him instead, a certain curiosity lacing grey eyes. It was hardly a unique color, that faded ash, but the sharpness that flicked from one corner of Lance’s face to the next, made him straighten out. Being scrutinized was not his thing - it was probably no one’s thing; while Lance hailed his vanity like a goddess, there was only so much staring even _he_ could handle. Finally, the stranger spoke, “I don’t know you.”

“So, you’re a dick to people you don’t know?” Lance spoke around a tight smile, leaning his body forward again, elbows crossed on the counter. His gaze flicked to Nyma - who raised an eyebrow at the exchange - before returning, “Must be a hit with the ladies.”

The man’s interest faltered, and Lance could see it in the way his face fell from curiosity into the straight lines of a deadpan. Lance watched him run fingers into the back of his hair, tucking any loose strands into his haphazard bun - an idle, practiced action - as he stared back with lid eyes. His lack of amusement was tangible, “Not interested. But I assume you have the tendency to try and fail pretty often, huh.”

Lance’s hackles raised, neck sinking lower into his shoulders,“I’ll have you fucking kn—”

The man didn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence. He turned to Nyma again, adjusting a threadbare gym bag over his shoulder, the oxblood fabric sprayed at its edges, brushing against the tops of rounded arms.“Tall black, _please_? Shiro wants me in ten.”

“Sure thing, Keefie.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Right, _right_. You’re no fun, mate.” she responded, pushing off the counter to busy herself with the drink. “You want anything, while I’m at it, city boy?”

Lance could taste his own anger, unable to tear away from the guy’s sharp angled profile - one that was intentionally turned away. _Who does this guy think he is?_ No amount of subpar coffee, he decided, was about to wash down his irritation. “It’s Lance,” he corrected, tone flat, “and I’m good, thanks.”

He could see Nyma shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Suit yourself, then.”

Lance let his eyes flutter as he rolled them, trying his best to weave nonchalance into his annoyance. His patience was balancing on a thin line between wanting to leave the shop and needing a job - whether for distraction or otherwise. It was enough that he couldn’t really _do anything he liked_ in this town, and apparently, from what he’d seen thus far, the locals were hardly the warmest of people. Lance straightened out, folding his arms against his chest, eyes following the easy bend and practiced hand that made tar coffee.

_Is this even worth it?_

It didn’t seem like it, and he wasn’t sure what it was he was waiting for; Nyma had clearly told him that she wasn’t hiring—all things considered, Lance didn’t feel like trying his luck with her boss. He liked to think he had enough self-respect to wait it out, hoping that the high owner would walk out sooner rather than later. _Better yet,_ Lance thought, giving the newcomer a once-over that lacked subtlety and friendliness. _Maybe mullet here is the one that should bounce._

The man was all wide shoulders and narrow hips, the old of a threadbare jumper doing little, if anything at all, to hide the swell of his arms. He was a sight, pleasant to look at, from the tight hook of his knees, up to the rolling thighs that seemed too strong to not have been flexing, _show off._ It was as though he knew Lance was watching, and even if, it was hardly a secret - the emptiness of the shop left only so much to be observed. A scoff tore itself from the attic of Lance’s throat, looking off to the side once their eyes met.

If he wasn’t as annoyed as he was, he would’ve rose to the challenge etched on the man’s face; _he’s fucking smirking—_

“Your poison, Kogane.”

Too preoccupied attempting to dig up a proper response, Lance hadn’t given her too much attention, mind not registering the calm sound of brewing beans and the silence that followed. _Kogane._ He watched the man’s smile stretch, the fullness of his lips reduced to a flat-line heartbeat as he glanced down at the paper cup placed between him and Lance.

 _keith,_ was written, bold and stark, brave against paper brown.

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance looked up, repeating as he met those eyes head on, “I don’t like it”

The other rolled his eyes, taking the cup into his palm—though the sight gave Lance pause. Lining the open mountains of his knuckles, were peaked tips of blue and black, broken bruises that folded into water-pressed shades of violet. Every bone and every tendon up the back of a pale palm dotted itself in the same telltale tattoo of shattered and re-shattered bones. He swallowed, Lance had split one to many a joint not to recognize the grip of insecurity that riddled Keith’s hold.

“Good thing no one asked you.”

Lance looked up to find a lidded stare, serrated and a little hostile - it didn’t take him very long to gather that staring may not have been his greatest decision. His expression lost edge, flicking down to Keith’s palm once more to find it covered by the split seams of a grey sleeve—his self control lacked, just in time for his curiosity to grow. “It suits you, though,” he added in a passive tone, slowly letting a sharp smile settle on his lips, “I don’t like you, either.”

“Congratulations, then.” Keith’s tone fell flat, thick brows hanging low over slanted eyes, “I hope you realize I don’t give a fuck.”

“Gentlemen, _boys_ ,” Nyma cackled, resting one palm on her bare side, the other coming up to fondle her necklace, blue nails flipping the ring pendant into the chain and back out.“Take it the hell outside, no one wants to see that. And me? Sure as hell not here for the migraine. Don’t make my shift harder than it needs to be, yeah?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Keith shifted, rolling his shoulder under the wide strap of his bag, thumb rooting itself between it and the folded fabric of his sweater, placing a bill on the counter to replace the coffee. His body sagged a little under the weight, and Lance wondered what it was he had in there; he would call Keith a pretentious athlete, lycra pants and all, if his shit didn’t look absolutely worn.

“I’ll see you around, Kogane?” he added, more for effect that genuine care, his smile wry.

Keith hadn’t responded, vouching to shake his head in vexed exasperation, a few strands falling out of his bun as he made his way out of the shop with a little more force than necessary. Lance’s head twisted, eyes following the lithe form; he may not have liked the man - not even in the _slightest_ \- but he wasn’t blind to the way Keith was visually appealing on nearly every front. Save, of course, _his fucking personality._ It was a shame, but not enough to mourn.

By the time he turned back to Nyma, she had found respite in her magazine once more, gum popping.

Lance cringed, _fuck this._

He missed his gymnast bar already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no self control im afraid :')
> 
> i didn't proof read this properly, so feel free to tell me if anything's off!
> 
> (ballet next chapter, definitely)

**Author's Note:**

> anyways tell me what you guys think and whether this thing is worth writing after all! :)
> 
> [ @venpast](http://venpast.tumblr.com/) is my tumblr! 
> 
> ciao
> 
> p.s. elynnae bullied me into posting


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